


whispers in your ear (tells you that i miss you and i wish that you were here)

by barbiewrites



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Falling In Love, First Kiss, Getting Together, Getting to Know Each Other, Kinda, M/M, Medium Burn, Snowcones, Summer, Summer Love, Summer Romance, Surfing, Tinder, mini golf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-17
Updated: 2019-10-17
Packaged: 2020-12-21 11:44:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21074357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barbiewrites/pseuds/barbiewrites
Summary: My flight was delayed 3 hours so I was doing what any human does when they’re bored. Minding my own business swiping through tinder & the guy behind me goes “ouch hard no for that one?” And I turn around ONLY TO SEE THE MAN I JUST SWIPED NO ON BEHIND ME HAHAHA





	whispers in your ear (tells you that i miss you and i wish that you were here)

**Author's Note:**

> title is from wish you were here by florence and the machine, but a lot of this was written while listening to cinnamon by jome.
> 
> idrk how i feel about this (-:

“Flight 43-7 to Orlando has been delayed until 3:15, we’re sorry any the inconvenience caused.”  
  
It’s just his luck, really -- he’s not sure why he’s surprised. Figures that something like this would happen. First the cold shower and now he’s not going to get there until the evening. He clicks out of Instagram on his phone, opening up the family group chat.  
  
11:14  
flight delayed  
not leaving until 3 now  


luke - 11:14  
F  
jack - 11:14  
F  
mom - 11:16  
Ugh - keep us updated. Might have to take a cab home. Can they get you on another flight?  


11:17  
this is the last one out tonight  
i’d have to connect  
think i might just have to take the L  


mom - 11:17  
????  
  


He figures he can just leave Jack and Luke to take care of that, given that he doesn’t really feel like explaining slang to his mom right now. He really fucking wishes he could take a nap, but. He’s never really felt comfortable sleeping in public, so that’s going to be a no. He figures he’ll just suffer through being tired on the plane, tired on the ride home, and then finally spend no time with his family and fall asleep at 8.  
  
Tired of insta and having a total of 0 new snaps, Quinn opens up Tinder. He knows it’s kind of dumb, seeing as he’s about to leave the state, but maybe when he comes back he can hit one of them up or something. He starts swiping, two nos and then a yes, and then he comes up.  
  
His name is Brady and the first thing, right next to the occupational symbol, is 6’4”. It makes Quinn crack a smile a little and he taps through Brady’s pictures. Some of him playing hockey for BU, one of him and what looks like his brother playing golf, other pictures of him in a suit getting ready for a game. Sure enough, he scrolls down and the guy’s school is listed as Boston U. Then he reads his bio: “My older brother might be better looking than me but I'm two inches taller so whos the real winner?”  
  
That one really does make Quinn snort.  
  
His anthem is listed as One by Post Malone, and he’s got his Instagram connected so Quinn swipes through those pictures as well. He’s cute enough, in Quinn’s opinion. Skinny but only by hockey terms, he can tell this dude is at least, like, 200 pounds. He’s made a pretty decent campaign for a swipe right, but there’s no real reason to swipe right on him. He goes to BU, his Instagram pictures have Blues and Rams pictures, so the dude is pretty obviously from St. Louis. He flexes his thumb over the screen, kind of dancing between right and left before he finally just swipes left.  
  
“Ouch,” he hears over his shoulder. “Hard no on that one?”  
  
Quinn looks up and comes face to face with Brady. He laughs kind of awkwardly.  
  
“It’s cool,” Brady shrugs. “No hard feelings. I’m just gonna cry myself to sleep over it.”  
  
“Sorry,” Quinn says, kind of chuckling. “I --”  
  
“You don’t have to say,” Brady promises him. “I’m just giving you a hard time.”  
  
“Yeah,” he laughs awkwardly again. “I got that part.”  
  
“Are you from here?” Brady asks, moving in his seat to kind of face Quinn more because -- apparently they’re just gonna do this and, like. Have a conversation.  
  
“Um, I go to UMich,” he says, “but my family lives in Orlando, so. Going home.” He nods to the gate.  
  
“Oh, sick. I’m, like, the opposite. We have a summer house up here.”  
  
“You’re going to Orlando?”  
  
“Yeah, my Grandparents have a place down there and we’re having a whole big reunion thing.”  
  
“Oh. Cool,” he says because he doesn’t really know what else to say.  
  
“You play hockey or something?” Brady asks, unzipping the bag next to him and pulling out a bag of Swedish Fish. “I feel like I’ve seen you before, like. Not on Tinder. Do you want one?” He rips the bag open, then offers Quinn one.  
  
Quinn can’t help the little smile on his lips, and he turns to open himself up a little more to Brady. “Yeah, um. I play for Michigan, thank you.” He takes a candy, then pops it into his mouth.  
  
“Were you on the roster when you played BU?” Quinn nods. “Dude, then I totally played you, and you totally smoked us. In the fucking semifinals.”  
  
Quinn nods again, “Six-three.” He scored the opening goal, but he’s not gonna say anything.  
  
“Oh, you have the score memorized?” He asks.  
  
“It was a good game,” he laughs, shrugging. “And I remember when I score.”  
  
“Oh that’s how it is?” Brady asks, cocking his head.  
  
Quinn tilts his right back, but he’s smiling. “Yeah, it is.”  
  
They talk a lot. They find out they have a few mutual friends, Quinn learns that Brady like the son of Keith Tkachuk Brady, talk about who they think is gonna win in the playoffs, about baseball.  
  
“See,” Quinn says when Brady says he’s a Cardinals fan, “I knew there was a reason I swiped left. I followed my gut.”  
  
It’s two when another announcement comes over the PA.  
  
“Passengers waiting to board Flight 43-7 to Orlando, we will now be boarding at 6:20. We’re sorry for the inconvenience caused.”  
  
“Come on,” Quinn mutters, pulling his phone off Brady’s cord to text his parents. “Thanks, dude.”  
  
“Yeah, no problem,” Brady answers. “I’m gonna go talk to my brother really quick.”  
  
“Yeah,” Quinn says, typing out a message to his mom.  
  
2:08  
hey  
we just got delayed again  
leaving at 6:20  


mom - 2:10  
This is ridiculous.  
Do you mind taking a cab home, honey?  


2:11  
sure  
  
“Hey,” Brady says as he comes back and Quinn’s head pops back up. “You wanna go find someplace to eat? You can leave your stuff with my family.”  
  
“Oh,” Quinn says.  
  
“I just figure we’ve got, like. Four hours to kill and whatever is here is probably better than plane food. No pressure, though,” Brady says. “You can say no.”  
  
“No, no,” Quinn says, sitting up properly. “I wanna walk around some. I’ve been sitting for, like, four hours straight. Let’s go eat.”  
  
It’s kinda fun just -- having nothing to do. They spend some time fucking around in the little gift shops, pointing out little trinkets and whatnot, throwing spare change into a fountain that doesn’t really look like the type of fountain to throw change into, racing one another through the tunnel connecting the two terminals. They eat, too, at a nice Italian place, splitting calamari and salad and a massive plate of chicken parm -- Quinn gets a laugh out of Brady getting carded for trying to buy a glass of wine, too, so there’s that.  
  
“What’s your venmo?” Quinn asks when Brady tosses a card into the little bill envelope without really taking a look at it.  
  
“It’s fine, dude,” Brady brushes off.  
  
“No, dude,” Quinn smiles. “Let me pay half.”  
  
“It’s my dad’s card,” Brady assures him, “he won’t even notice. Trust me.”  
  
The waitress comes by, swiping the card on her little handheld machine and handing Brady a receipt to sign, which he does.  
  
Brady’s smirking at him, and Quinn looks away when he feels his cheeks heat up. “Thank you.”  
  
“Yep,” Brady says, standing right up and mussing Quinn’s hair. “Anytime. Next ones on you.”  
  
Quinn scoffs. “Next time. In your dreams.”  
  
They walk back to their gate from the restaurant, taking their time again. It’s not like they have anywhere to be.  
  
This time -- finally -- when it’s time to board, they actually get to. Quinn is boarding group one and Brady is two, so he grabs all of his stuff. “I’ll see you on there, dude.”  
  
“Yeah, dude. See you.” Brady gives him a little head nod thing and Quinn tries to keep his smile to himself.  
  
He’s in the third row, window seat. He gets his bag tucked away, gets his headphones out, trying to get everything ready so he doesn’t have to bother whoever’s sitting next to him when they finally get there.  
  
“Oh, Quinn,” he hears, “oh, Quinn, Quinn, Quinn. Are you in for a fucking treat,” Brady says, and then he sees two long and skinny legs step into his row.  
  
“No, you’re not,” Quinn laughs, trying to untangle his headphones. “You’re in group two.”  
  
“Look! 3B, right there.” He shows Quinn his ticket, and sure enough, it says 3B. “Lucky you, huh?”  
  
Brady gets settled, introduces him briefly to Matt then Taryn and his dad, who is sat on the other side of the aisle in the same row.  
  
“Dad,” Brady says, clicking through the channels, “I’m gonna get the Sportsnet Channel and watch the game.” Keith gives him a nod and Brady swipes his card on his seatback. He looks over to Quinn. “You wanna watch with me?”  
  
“Uh,” Quinn says like he really has to consider it. He was gonna try and force himself to nod off a little but sleeping on planes has never really been a thing for him, so he figures he doesn’t have much else to do. “Sure, yeah.”  
  
Brady pulls his own headphones out, plugging them in and giving one to Quinn, then tilting the screen. “Can you see it okay?”  
  
“Yeah, thank you.”  
  
“Totally, dude. Who’ve you got for this game?”  
  
Brady talks to him a little as it warms up, throughout the game. When the snack cart comes by, he shares the snack box he gets with Quinn while slapping his brother’s hand away.  
  
He’s not really sure what happens. One moment he’s listening to Brady talk about how he’s friends with Charlie McAvoy, and the next someone is gently rubbing his arm.  
  
“Hey, bud,” it’s Brady’s voice, nice and gentle. “Gotta get up, we landed.”  
  
He notices then that he’s slumped over, his head resting on Brady’s shoulder. He sits up, scrunching his eyes together and then rubbing at them. “Sorry, man,” he says, then tries to stretch his back while still in his chair, “I don’t usually sleep on planes, that was… way out of the ordinary.”  
  
“No big,” Brady replies, tucking his headphones back into his backpack. “Caps won, six-two.”  
  
“Oh yeah?” he yawns.  
  
“Yeah. Not really much of a nail biter, Caps stayed on top the whole game.”  
  
“Cool,” he answers back. He’s about to apologize again, but the PA comes on, letting them know they can take their seatbelts off and get ready to deplane. He pulls out his phone and sends a text that he’s landed. Brady pops open a tin of cinnamon Altoids, then tosses two in his mouth.  
  
“You want one?” He asks, and Quinn looks at it a moment before sliding one out. No point in tasting like sleep-mouth.  
  
“Thanks,” he says, and Brady knocks their knees together.  
  
“‘Course, dude.”  
  
Quinn drags his bag out from the seat ahead of him and they head out, following Keith and Matt. They walk together, Brady telling him what he missed of the game.  
  
“Caps played good, but Vegas also just had the worst fucking puck luck. So many almost goals, you know? And Fleury --” Quinn doesn’t mind listening to him talk. It’s kind of nice.  
  
“Is your family picking you up?” Brady asks when they’re down at the carousel waiting for their bags.  
  
Quinn shakes his head. “I’m just gonna take a cab, I think.”  
  
“You want me to ask my mom if she can give you a ride?” Brady asks, no hesitation.  
  
“No, no, it’s fine. It’s, like. We stay at Cocoa Beach so it’s kinda out of the way.”  
  
“Dad,” Brady says, turning to look over at Keith, Taryn and Matt. “Is Mamaw’s close to Cocoa Beach?”  
  
Keith nods at him, “Right over 520.”  
  
Brady turns back to Quinn. “If you want,” he says. “You don’t have to. No pressure.” Brady bends over, grabbing a bag off the belt and sitting it next to him.  
  
He probably shouldn’t be getting into a vehicle with someone he doesn’t know, in all honesty, but he kinda trusts Brady in a really weird, wishful thinking kind of way. Then again, it could all be a ploy to kidnap him and sell him to the black market, but.  
  
“Are you sure?” He asks.  
  
“Yeah, totally. Lemme text her.”  
  
While Brady taps out a message to his mom, Quinn tugs his bag off the belt. “If it’s too much trouble --”  
  
“Nah,” Brady interrupts, “she already said yes. It’s, like, five extra minutes drive for us apparently. Don’t sweat it.”  
  
Sure enough, once Keith and Matt grab their bags, they walk over to the doors and out. He gets to meet Brady’s mom, Chantal, while Brady puts his bag in the back of their suburban. She’s really sweet, makes plenty of conversation about his life while she drives them over.  
  
“A family friend of ours has a, like, surf shop kind of thing down here so I just work there over the summers.”  
  
“Hockey in the winter and surfing in the summer,” she smiles. “Not bad.”  
  
“It’s, um. 123, right here.” He points out the window. “Thanks so much for the ride, I really appreciate it, and. It was really nice meeting you guys.”  
  
“Of course, and -- like I said, we live right over the bridge so if you want to come over any time and keep Brady out of our hair, please feel free.”  
  
Quinn laughs, “Thank you.”  
  
“Brady, help him with his bags,” Chantal says, “please.”  
  
He’s going to protest, say he can get them on his own, but Brady’s already climbing out and opening up the trunk.  
  
“Thank you,” he says, pulling up the handle and throwing his Jansport over his shoulder. “And thanks for the ride and everything.”  
  
“No problem,” Brady responds, messing with his hair again. “Thanks for keeping me company. Maybe I’ll see you around.”  
  
“Yeah,” Quinn says. “Maybe.” He waves and Brady waves back with that dumb little smirk on his face before shutting his door.  
  
Quinn pulls his suitcase up the driveway, then knocks on the door.  
  
\--  
  
Things settle back to normal. He starts working again, catches up on spending time with his family, eats a lot of gross pier food. It’s a good, normal week.  
  
He can’t stop thinking about Brady, though. He finds him on Instagram just searching his name, easy enough, and thinks about following but ultimately doesn’t. He doesn’t want to be weird about it.  
  
He’s giving a surfing lesson to a six-year-old today, so he lies the boards down out in the sand. He’s lining up the smaller board when he feels hands on his hips, giving a quick squeeze accompanied by a “boo!”  
  
Quinn jumps about a foot in the air, whipping around and nearly tripping over the surfboard he’d just put out.  
  
  
“What the fuck are you doing?!” He laughs, trying to play it off while Brady laughed at him.  
  
“What’s up, man?” Brady laughs. “Going out for a surf sesh?” He’s dressed stereotypically, but casually. Vineyard vines shirt, shorts, boat shoes.  
  
“I’m working,” he says, brushing his hands off on his wetsuit. “I’m about to give a lesson.”  
  
“Hot chick?”  
  
“She’s six.”  
  
“So no, then. When do you get off?”  
  
Quinn swallows. “Around seven or so.”  
  
“Sweet. You busy after?”  
  
“Depends.”  
  
“Ouch,” Brady laughs, and Quinn tries to bite back his smile again. “Guess I’ll have to come by later then.”  
  
“I guess.”  
  
“I gotta catch up with them,” he nods over Quinn’s shoulder to where his family is walking down the beach. “Don’t make any plans without me.”  
  
He’s kind of dumbfounded, left standing there watching Brady jog to catch up with them until he’s snapped out of it by the sound of a little girl’s voice.  
  
Evidently, Brady showing up doesn’t really help the ‘can’t stop thinking about Brady’ issue. He goes through the lesson, gives another one, then works the rental counter until they’re closing.  
  
“Yo,” Josh calls when he’s making sure the back doors are all locked, “someone’s out front asking for you.”  
  
He doesn’t wanna let himself think it’s Brady, because it may well not be. It could be Jack or his parents or someone he helped that day. But then again, if it was his brother or family or someone they’d seen, Josh probably would have said that instead, not ‘someone.’  
  
He’s probably overthinking a little for something he could just walk up and check.  
  
“What do you want,” Quinn laughs when he sees who it is.  
  
“Did you make plans?” Brady asks him back.  
  
“Don’t answer a question with a question,” Quinn replies. He didn’t, but he doesn’t want to tell Brady that quite yet. He didn’t make plans because he didn’t want to on his own accord, not because Brady told him not to. “Depends.”  
  
“Okay, well, cancel them if you did ‘cause you’re gonna come play a very serious and high stakes game of putt-putt with me, and after you lose, you’re gonna buy us snowcones.”  
  
Quinn looks around, considering it. “I’m kinda gross,” he admits, running a hand through his hair. He’d been in the water most of the day and only really got the chance to rinse off and throw more deodorant on.  
  
“If you wanna say no, you can say no,” Brady repeats. “No pressure.”  
  
Quinn thinks about it for another minute. “Give me like, five minutes to finish closing.”  
  
Brady grins at him. “You’ve got it.”  
  
He goes back inside, helps Josh get everything else in line for tomorrow, then gives Josh the key and heads out. “Are we walking?”  
  
“Yeah, or we can get one of those scooter things.”  
  
“Let’s walk,” Quinn says, pulling on his crewneck. “It’s nice out.”  
  
The sun was starting to set, lighting up the sky with orange and purple and pink. Brady asks about his day and he gives him decent answers, then asks the same back and tells him about how he tried having shawarma for lunch and half of it got stolen by a seagull.  
  
“I thought you said I was getting it next time,” Quinn says when Brady pulls out his wallet to pay for the putt-putt sticks.  
  
“I meant the next time we ate together,” Brady clarifies, grabbing two balls and tossing one Quinn’s way. He signs the receipt, then grabs the smallest club available and offers it to Quinn. “Here, this one is probably your size.”  
  
“Fuck off,” Quinn laughs, batting it away gently and picking up a mid-sized one. “I’m average height. I’m above average, actually.”  
  
“That’s a lie,” Brady shakes his head. “You’re straight up just lying now.”  
  
“No, I’m not!” Quinn laughs, following Brady towards the door. Brady scoffs at him but holds the door open and lets Quinn through. “You can look it up.”  
  
“I’m not gonna look that up,” Brady laughs, then offers him the little paper and the pencil. “You wanna keep track?”  
  
“Sure,” Quinn takes the paper, writes a ‘B’ and a ‘Q’ up at the top and then tucks it into his pocket. “Who’s going first?”  
  
“You,” Brady answers, tapping his leg with his club gently.  
  
Quinn gives him a look, but puts the blue little ball down on the dot and takes his swing. He’s close, but not close enough really. Through the course, he doesn’t get any holes-in-one, actually, but he’s consistently pretty low whereas Brady either gets them in one or two or fifteen.  
  
(He kind of thinks Brady is gonna kiss him when they go into the pirate ship. It’s cramped and close and neither of them are really focused on the putt-putt thing, mostly just looking at one another. Quinn can smell the cinnamon on his breath. Brady doesn’t kiss him.)  
  
“What’s the score. Who’s winning,” Brady asks as he lines up for his last putt.  
  
“Um,” Quinn says, quickly adding up the columns. He laughs at the sums. “You can tie me if you sink this one.”  
  
“Shut up,” Brady says, standing up. “You’re lying.”  
  
“I’m not a liar!” Quinn insists. “If you didn’t take thirty putts to go through hole 19 you’d be way in the lead.”  
  
“That was a fluke,” Brady tries.  
  
Quinn shrugs. “Scoresheet doesn’t lie, man.”  
  
Brady shrugs and shakes himself out a little. “Whatever. I like a little pressure. Not even a big deal.” He lines up and swings, the both of them watching as the ball rolls down the hill. “Come on, come on, dude, I’m so --” His ball is heading straight for the hole, and just as it’s about to tip in it rolls around the rim and pops out, settling just an inch away from the hole. “Are you fucking joking.”  
  
Quinn’s doubled over laughing at him while Brady walks up, kicking the ball into the hole.  
  
“That was bullshit and you won on a fluke, I hope you know that. That was such utter bull, dude,” Brady says, but once he makes eye contact with Quinn he breaks the lecture a little and laughs. “It was! That was so fucked. I got set up. Are you friends with the people who run this place? Did you ask them to make me embarrass myself?”  
  
Quinn laughs, then wipes at his eye with the hem of his shirt. “No, I think you did that all on your own.”  
  
“We have to have a rematch,” Brady shrugs, walking towards the exit. “That’s the only way. Rematch.”  
  
“I was promised a snowcone,” he replies, walking through the door Brady was holding open.  
  
“Fine, fine,” Brady replies as they put their clubs back. “Next time.”  
  
“Right,” Quinn agrees. “Next time.”  
  
They’re walking back down the beach to a snowcone stand when Quinn’s phone vibrates in his pocket.  
  


jack - 8:46  
bro where r u  


8:46  
out  


jack - 8:47  
no ur not  
i just saw josh  


8:47  
ok? good for u  


jack - 8:47  
so where are you  


8:49  
i have other friends  


jack - 8:49  
lol okay  
mom wants to know  


8:50  
make something up  
it’s not even 9  


jack - 8:50  
you have to tell me later tho  
  


“Sorry,” Quinn says, putting his phone back away. “It’s my brother.”  
  
“It’s cool. Do you need to get home or something? We can take a rain check.”  
  
“No,” Quinn replies. “I can stay. What flavor are you gonna get?” Quinn nods towards the sign.  
  
“Might try something new today. Thinking… oh, they’ve got pickle.”  
  
“That’s gross.”  
  
“Not a pickle guy?”  
  
Quinn scrunches up his face. “They’re fine, but that’s like -- drinking iced vinegar.”  
  
“What about ‘Blue Eagle’?”  
  
“That’s, um. Bubblegum, I think.”  
  
“I want something that’s gonna dye my tongue.”  
  
Quinn laughs at him. “The ‘Ocean Mist’ one is good. It’s kinda like a Shirley Temple.”  
  
“I think I gotta go with the polar punch. Like the Gatorade flavor?” He asks, and Quinn nods. “You know what you want?” Quinn nods again.  
  
They step up to the counter and Brady orders his -- polar punch and margarita -- and then nods to Quinn, who gets strawberry-kiwi and tiger’s blood.  
  
“You wanna taste?” Brady asks, offering his. Quinn sticks his spoon into the blue side, then scoops some away and tastes it.  
  
Quinn nods. “Tastes like they poured Gatorade onto some ice,” he says astutely.  
  
“Yeah, ki--” Brady doesn’t get to finish because his flip flop gets caught on an uneven board and he trips, sending his snowcone across the pier in a slushy mess.  
  
“Oh my God,” Quinn says, “are you okay?”  
  
“What the fuck is with my luck today?” Brady asks, bending down to pick up his cup. There’s a little bit of slushy syrup left in it, so he tries to flick it at Quinn, who easily avoids it. “Can’t catch a break.”  
  
“You could eat it off the dock,” Quinn suggests, giggling.  
  
“Say I won’t.”  
  
“No,” Quinn screws up his face. “We can share.”  
  
“How generous of you,” Brady comments dryly, but he has a little smile on his lips.  
  
“I’m a generous guy,” Quinn replies matter of factly, reaching for the empty cup and sliding his inside it until they could find a trash can. “I wasn’t going to be able to finish it anyway, so. You’re really doing me a favor.”  
  
“Right,” Brady agrees, “so you should be thanking me, really. I gotta get this Tiger’s Blood to stain my tongue.”  
  
“Why do you want it to stain so bad?” He laughs.  
  
“Did you really eat a snowcone if your mouth isn’t weirdly colored afterward?”  
  
“That’s fair,” Brady answers. They walk, chipping along at the snowcone until it’s just a cup half full of little ice chunks and syrup.  
  
“Do you dare me to drink this?”  
  
“No,” Quinn scowls. “You’re gonna give yourself diabetes.”  
“I could do it,” Brady repeats.  
  
“Don’t. That’s gross,” Quinn shakes his head. “I don’t wanna be responsible when you go into a diabetic coma out in the middle of the beach.”  
  
“Would you give me mouth to mouth?”  
  
“No?” Quinn laughs at him. “Just because you’re in a coma doesn’t mean you can’t breathe.”  
  
“But it couldn’t hurt, right?”  
  
Quinn laughs at him again. “I mean -- I think giving rescue breaths is a lot sexier in your head than it is in real life.”  
  
“Damn, so I gotta get you to kiss me the old fashioned way.”  
  
Quinn doesn’t really know what to say, so he just looks forwards at the beach. He kind of wants Brady to kiss him, but then again, he kind of feels like Brady is just bored and passing the time. He just wants someone to mess around with for the time being and then forget about when he goes home. Which is fine, Quinn doesn’t care if that’s what he wants. He just doesn’t like being that person for other people.  
  
“In your dreams,” he settles on, as lame as it is.  
  
“Maybe so,” Brady counters. “Maybe so.”  
  
They hang out on the beach a while longer and Brady tries to teach Quinn how to do a cartwheel, catch a big crab (and name him Wayne Letang, after both of their favorite players), set the crab free, try shoving each other into the surf.  
  
“We should go swimming,” Brady says, knee-deep in the ocean.  
  
“Right now?” Quinn asks.  
  
“Yeah, why not?”  
  
“Because it’s freezing?” Quinn laughs. “Also so fucking unsafe. If one of us got caught in a rip current we’d basically be dead.”  
  
“If we just get in, it won’t seem so cold.”  
  
“Did you not hear the dangerous part?” Quinn laughs.  
  
“We just won’t swim in rip currents, easy.”  
  
“You have to trust me,” Brady says, reaching out and grabbing Quinn’s hand to pull him close.  
  
“Don’t -- no!” Quinn laughs, pulling Brady back with him. “I’m not going swimming right now, not in the fucking Atlantic.”  
  
“Trust me!” Brady laughs, wrapping his arms around Quinn’s torso and tugging him back towards the water.  
  
Quinn is laughing, but -- the mood shifts suddenly. It’s like he’s realizing that it’s just the two of them under the stars, out on the beach, knee-deep in the surf with the wind blowing them. How close -- secure, he thinks -- Brady is holding him, how his own hands are clutching Brady’s shoulders, how close Brady’s mouth is.  
  
There’s a little while where it feels like everything else kind of blurs away. He’s looking at Brady’s mouth, not really letting himself think at all, and he can’t see it but he thinks maybe Brady is looking at his mouth, too.  
  
He’s cut off by his name called, loud and clear through the wind from behind him.  
  
“Quinton!”  
  
Quinn turns around, only to see his mom coming down the beach, and then he remembers his and Brady’s phones are tucked under his crewneck up on the sidewalk -- and have probably been there for the better part of two hours.  
  
“Shit.” He turns back to Brady, “That’s my mom, sorry.”  
  
He starts his way up the beach, his mom beginning her lecture as soon as he could hear her properly.  
  
“Where have you been, and where is your phone?! Are you okay? What are you -- who are you with? What are you doing out here, you had me scared to death, Quinn!” She takes his head in her hands as if she’s looking him over for injuries. “I thought you got kidnapped or something.”  
  
“Sorry,” he repeats. “I just -- I just got distracted and lost track of time, we left our phones up on the sidewalk.”  
  
“Who are you out here with? Josh said he hadn’t seen you since you guys closed, what are you --”  
  
It’s Brady this time, gently interrupting him. “Sorry,” he says, “um -- it’s my fault, Mrs…”  
  
“Hughes.”  
  
“Yeah, Mrs. Hughes, it’s my fault. I asked Quinn to hang out last minute and then we just lost track of time. I’m sorry, don’t get mad at him. It’s my fault.”  
  
He really doesn’t need to do any of this. His mom isn’t actually, like, mad at him. She just gets worried when he doesn’t tell her things.  
  
“He needs to use his phone, that’s why he has one,” Mrs. Hughes says. “That was incredibly irresponsible, Quinn.”  
  
“I’m sorry,” he says again, trying to avoid looking at Brady too much.  
  
“I need to get home anyway,” Brady nods. “Sorry again, Mrs. Hughes. It was my bad. I’ll catch you later, Quinn.”  
  
Quinn watches Brady walk off, back to their stuff. He picks up Quinn’s wallet and phone, waving for his attention before putting them down on a bench and pointing. And then he walks off.  
  
His mom is talking at him as they walk up the beach, back up to the bench so Quinn can grab his stuff. He’s kind of annoyed, but. He gets it. He probably should’ve told her where he was and who he was with and all that but -- tonight had kind of felt like a whirlwind. He was pretty distracted.  
  
He gets home, showers then gets in bed and hopes Brady comes by again tomorrow. He wants to see him again.  
  
He and Josh go get breakfast tacos the next day, tucked in the back booth while Josh quizzes him on who Brady is between bites of egg and chorizo.  
  
“Did you meet him at UMich?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“So where’d you meet him?”  
  
He doesn’t wanna say Tinder, so. “The airport.”  
  
“You just started talking to someone at the airport.”  
  
“He started talking to me.”  
  
“And you just. Went along with it.”  
  
“He’s easy to talk to.”  
  
“And now he’s stalking you?”  
  
“He has family on Merritt Island.”  
  
“How longs he here for?”  
  
Quinn shrugs. “Dunno.”  
  
“Do you have his number?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Do you know literally anything about him?”  
  
Yeah, obviously. He knows Brady was born on the 16th of September in Scottsdale, Arizona but grew up in St. Louis. He knows Brady’s favorite color is red and he goes to Boston U and plays hockey and his favorite player is Wayne Simmonds, and his favorite holiday is New Years and his second favorite is the Fourth of July. He knows that he has an older brother and a younger sister and no pets, but he’s a dog person (and he’s allergic to cats), and he knows that he thinks mac and cheese is the ‘ultimate’ side dish for steak. He knows that Brady unashamedly thinks ‘Boyfriend’ by Big Time Rush is a bop and that his family has a summer house in Plymouth, Michigan.  
  
“A bit,” Quinn shrugs. “He’s chill, I don’t know.”  
  
“So you’re just gonna chill until he shows back up at the beach?”  
  
“I don’t know. It’s not even that serious, dude. He probably just wants to do me ‘cause he’s bored.”  
  
“Aw, Quinny,” Josh says, reaching to ruffle his hair. Quin shoves his hand away. “I’m gonna piss, then we can go.”  
  
Quinn nods, stuffing the rest of his breakfast burrito into his mouth and pulling his phone out. He opens instagram and types in Brady’s name again, then puts his chin in his hand. He doesn’t wanna be weird and follow him out of nowhere, but he kind of wants Brady to still talk to him. He’s about to tap out of it when someone’s hand swipes in and taps the follow button.  
  
“Josh --” Quinn says, grabbing his hand and looking up, only to see that it’s Brady sitting across from him.  
  
“Thanks for the follow,” Brady grins.  
  
“Are you stalking me or something?” Quinn asks.  
  
“Says the guy who was just creeping on my Instagram.”  
  
“You have a hard time not looking at other people’s phones, huh?”  
  
Brady shrugs. “I’m just such a good looking dude when I see other people looking at pictures of me I can’t help but look, too.” Quinn rolls his eyes and gets a bigger smile from Brady. “Everything good with your family?”  
  
Quinn nods. “Thanks for -- you didn’t have to do that, yesterday. She wasn’t actually mad, she just gets nervous about me being safe and stuff.”  
  
“No hard feelings?”  
  
Quinn shakes his head. “You’re good. Are -- seriously, are you just following me around now?”  
  
Brady nods over to the other side of the room. “Matts on facetime with his boyfriend and I saw you by yourself, so. Are you waiting for someone?”  
  
“My friend is in the bathroom.”  
  
“You work today?”  
  
Quinn nods. “Yeah. I think I have a lesson or two.”  
  
“How do I get lessons?”  
  
He gets a lazy grin from Quinn, who runs a hand through his hair. “Go to a surf shop and ask for them.”  
  
“How do I get a cute instructor like you?”  
  
“Shut up,” he laughs. “You’re not funny.” He flicks a balled-up straw wrapper at Brady.  
  
“Are you doing anything later tonight?” He asks. He feels Brady hook their ankles under the table.  
  
“Depends,” Quinn says again, and Brady smiles at him.  
  
“Okay,” he shrugs. “So I’ll see you around seven again?”  
  
Quinn hums like he’s thinking of accepting. “Eight,” Quinn replies. “Maybe. If you’re lucky.”  
  
“If I’m lucky,” Brady repeats, and they sit there for a minute just smiling wordlessly at one another.  
  
“I gotta go,” Quinn feels bashful for some reason, cheeks warming and looking down at Brady’s hands on the table. They’re nice hands. Hockey hands. Big and strong. He doesn’t know (he does know) why he’s thinking about this. “Josh is looking at me right now.”  
  
“See you, Hughes.”  
  
Quinn laughs, forcing himself out of the booth so he doesn’t accidentally stare into Brady’s eyes all day. “Bye.”  
  
It’s a pretty slow day, which is usually great, but sucks today because there’s nothing to do to distract him from thinking about Brady. He rewaxes all the boards, rinses all the kayaks, organizes all the paddles, even puts new wheels on his longboard. He even tries to sweep all the sand out of the store.  
  
“I can’t fucking do this, dude,” Quinn says dramatically, laying himself over the counter. “Why is today taking so long.”  
  
“Really?” Josh asks, setting a stack of folded shirts out on display. “I feel like it’s gone by so fast.”  
  
“Every minute feels like an hour and every second feels like a minute.”  
  
“You’re just fucked up ‘cause you wanna see your boyfriend,”  
  
“He’s not my boyfriend,” Quinn mutters. And -- yeah. Maybe he did want to see Brady. So what.  
  
“What’d you guys do last night?”  
  
“Played putt-putt and fucked around on -- not like that, okay, fuck off,” Quinn says, shutting his eyes so he doesn’t have to look at the dumb ass face Josh is giving him. “We hung out on the beach.”  
  
“And then Ellen freaked out.”  
  
“Yeah,” Quinn sighs. “And then Ellen freaked out.”  
  
“Classic Ellen move, man,” Josh says, “did she ask about him?”  
  
Quinn props himself up on his elbows, picking at the stickers on the checkout countertop. “Yeah. But -- not really a lot. She trusts me to, like. Know what I’m getting myself into, obviously.”  
  
“Quinnys got a crush,” Josh sing-songs, moving to ruffle his hair again but Quinn stands up, moving out of the way.  
  
“Fuck off,” he puts his head in his hands. Yeah, he fucking may very well have a crush.  
  
“You wanna close early?” Josh asks. “We can just go surf for the last bit of work. I doubt anyone’ll come in.”  
  
Quinn sucks in a long breath, looking out the window to see how the waves were. “Yeah,” he decides, glad for the distraction. “Let’s do it.”  
  
It’s a good distraction at the very least. He still can’t help checking over his shoulder to see if Brady has shown up yet, but he tries to stay focused on the water in front of him, the sun on his face, the board under his feet and trying to keep balanced. They stay out there a while, well past seven, right until the sun is starting to dip into the horizon.  
  
“You wanna watch the sunset?” Josh asks, both of them half stripped from their wet suits and with towels around their shoulders.  
  
Quinn glances around. Brady still isn’t here, so doing this is probably the move. He’s either gonna sit and wait with Josh or sit and wait alone in front of the shop, and the former is much less humiliating. So he goes with that.  
  
They sit on his surfboard, not really saying much, just watching the birds and the boats out there while the sun lights up the skies. He tries to make a point to watch the sunsets here -- he’s usually free and they’re always really pretty, so.  
  
Brady, in very Brady fashion, doesn’t announce his arrival. He just plops down on the board on Quinn’s free side.  
  
“You have very dramatic entrances,” Quinn says, then glances over at him.  
  
  
“Gotta keep you guessin’, Quinny, keep you on your toes.”  
  
“Is this Brady?” Josh asks, leaning to look. “The famous Brady?”  
  
“You been talking about me?” Brady asks, nudging Quinn with his knee.  
  
“No,” Quinn responds, scowling while Brady offers a hand to Josh.  
  
“What’s up, dude?”  
  
“Nice to meet you, I’m Josh. He does talk about you, just so you know.”  
  
“No, I don’t,” Quinn says, shaking his head. “He’s full of shit.”  
  
Brady laughs, then bumps their shoulders together. “Come on, Quinny, you can say you have a crush on me.”  
  
“Okay, well, I’m not a liar,” Quinn lies, keeping his eyes firmly on the sunset.  
  
Josh ‘oooh’s at that, and Brady shakes his head. “Brutal, Quinny. Brutal.”  
  
They finish watching the sunset, and Josh is the first to stand, dropping the keys down to where Quinn was sitting. “I gotta bounce, I’ll see you two lovebirds later.”  
  
“Fuck off,” Quinn laughs.  
  
“Use protection,” Josh replies, turning and walking back up the beach.  
  
“Are you guys all closed up?” Brady asks, and Quinn is quietly grateful that Brady doesn’t mention Josh being Like That.  
  
“Nearly,” Quinn replies. “I just gotta put this,” he taps the surfboard beneath them, “away and, like. Rinse so I’m not all salty. Then --” he stops himself from saying ‘we can go.’ “I’ll be done,” he settles on.  
  
“Cool,” Brady nods. “You wanna come over? We have, like. A projector and a fire pit and stuff and basically everyone is in the city ‘till late so we can watch a movie.”  
  
It’s a pretty bad idea (just like riding home with him was) in all honesty. Yeah, Bradys been really nice so far, but he could change behind closed doors.  
  
“Yeah,” Quinn shrugs. “Sounds good.”  
  
They get up a minute later ‘cause Quinns getting cold without the sun and he lets Brady into the shop, quickly putting the board back and heading into the back to get his wetsuit off and rinse.  
  
“Of course you have a doorless Jeep,” Quinn scoffs when Brady walks him out to where he’d parked.  
  
“What’s that supposed to mean?!” Brady replies.  
  
Quinn shakes his head. “Just figures.”  
  
“Classic non-answer,” Brady fires back, starting it up. It’s a nice fifteen minutes or so -- Brady blasts Posty and the wind is nice, if a little cold.  
  
The house they pull up to is massive. “Jesus,” Quinn mutters, “how many people live here?”  
  
“We’ve got, like, thirty people here right now.”  
  
“Thirty?!”  
  
“Yeah,” Brady answers, opening the door, “big family.”  
  
Quinn mostly just follows him around like a puppy while Brady gets stuff in line. They order a pizza and Brady gets the fire pit going, then gets the whole projector thing set up.  
  
“You ever seen ‘Miracle’?”  
  
“Of course I’ve seen fucking ‘Miracle’,” Quinn says. “No kid who plays hockey in the States hasn’t.”  
  
“Cool, ‘cause that’s what we’re watching,” Brady replies. “I decided.”  
  
Quinn just snickers and Brady walks off again, but the projector flickers to life and he comes back with s’mores supplies. “I’ve got the goods.”  
  
“We’re gonna ruin our appetites.”  
  
“It’s pizza,” Brady says back. “We’ll survive.”  
  
Quinn still sits up and gets a marshmallow on a stick, then sticks it over the fire. Brady sticks his into the fire.  
  
“That’s so gross,” Quinn mutters, trying and failing to hold back his smile while Brady blows out the flaming glob of sugar.  
  
“People who don’t like burnt marshmallows have immature palates,” Brady responds matter-of-factly, “look it up, its been proven.”  
  
“You’re just eating char,” Quinn says back.  
  
“And it tastes good, what of it?” He asks, then sucks a bit of stringy fluff off his lip. Quinn shakes his head, grinning like an idiot as he slowly turns his own for a more even golden-brown.  
  
Jack and Rob start fighting when it happens. They’re both several s’mores deep and Brady has his arm very carefully around the back of the couch but not yet touching Quinn’s shoulders. Quinn may be leaning into him, just a little.  
  
And then they’re soaked.  
  
It’s a pretty normal Florida thing to just suddenly get rained on, so they both jump into action. Quinn tries covering up the food and Brady grabs what’s left on the table -- his Juul and their phones and the sticks they’d been using to roast marshmallows -- and head under the awning.  
  
“Do we need to put away the projector?” Quinn asks, and Brady nods to where it’s installed, safe and dry.  
  
“The screen is waterproof, so we can just leave it. It’s automatic, I’ll roll it up inside.”  
  
Even just a few moments out in the rain, they’re both soaked to the bone. Quinn puts the mostly dry food on the counter and pulls out a marshmallow, squishing it between his fingers while Brady dealt with a little control panel to put the screen away.  
  
“Really romantic, huh?” Brady asks, leaning onto the counter next to him and pulling out his little Altoids tin. He takes two, then offers Quinn one. He takes it.  
  
For a minute they just stand there looking at one another, listening to the rain and each other’s breathing. Brady’s white shirt has gone see-through and Quinn would be lying if he said he wasn’t stopping himself from looking.  
  
“I like the way you look at me,” Brady finally says, and Quinn raises his eyebrows.  
  
“And how’s that?” He asks.  
  
“Like you wanna kiss me.”  
  
Quinn can feel his cheeks start to flame and a smile threatening to grow, so he flicks his eyes away from Brady’s -- and directly onto his mouth.  
  
He doesn’t know how it keeps escaping him how close they are. How Brady is pressed against his side, how Quinn can smell the cinnamon on his breath, how little Brady has to move to wrap an arm around him and pull him chest to chest. Quinn can feel the countertop on his back and Brady’s warm arm just above that.  
  
“Is this okay?” He asks quietly.  
  
Quinn nods, scared of what will come out if he opens his mouth. His hand is on Brady’s shoulder now, but it ever so slowly trails up his trapezius and rests on his neck, his fingers curling around and sliding through the curls at the base of his head. He takes a good look at Brady’s lips again, then his eyes. He’s got pretty eyes.  
  
Brady must be the one moving, or maybe Quinn is just extremely unaware of his movements tonight because their noses are just barely touching now.  
  
It’s gonna happen, he thinks. Brady is going to kiss him. He’s gonna get kissed.  
  
And the doorbell rings.  
  
Quinn pulls his hand back into a gentle fist at chest height. “Pizza,” he says. “Probably.”  
  
“Yeah,” Brady says, then takes a deep breath. “I’ll get it.”  
  
He watches Brady run a hand through his hair then head towards the door, listens as he talks to the guy at the door, then reappears. “C’mon,” he nods. “I’ll give you something to change into.”  
  
It’s then that he realizes that he’s covered in goosebumps. He’s not sure what Brady’s doing to his head, but he’s usually self aware enough to realize when he’s cold or when he’s moving or when he’s letting someone into his personal space.  
  
Brady leads him up to his room, putting the pizza on his bed. “What size do you wear, an XS?”  
  
“Fuck off,” Quinn laughs, and Brady hands him a red hoodie. He holds it up, reading ‘TERRIERS HOCKEY #7’ and he shakes his head with a laugh.  
  
“What?” Brady asks, innocent as ever.  
  
“Nothing,” he pulls off his soaked tee, then pulls on the sweatshirt.  
  
He’s never really gotten the big sweater thing. He’d rather just have something that fit, but -- Brady’s sweater is a little baggy on his shoulders and his hands can tuck neatly into the sleeves and how the hem hangs down over the tops of his thighs. Brady throws a pair of sweats at him.  
  
He tries to look busy while Brady changes, tries to keep his eyes off the lines of Brady’s hips and his biceps because he doesn’t want to be a creep (though really, Brady would probably be flattered).  
  
“You wanna get destroyed in ping pong?” Brady asks him.  
  
“Are you talking to yourself?” Quinn asks.  
  
Brady scoffs, picking up the pizza again and leading Quinn back downstairs to a new room, stuffed with bubble hockey and a ping pong table and foosball and massive bean bags. A huge TV is mounted on the wall with what looks like every video game known to man underneath it, and a cabinet filled with board games is beside it.  
  
Brady dumps the box on the island of the tiny kitchenette attached, then pulls out a slice and walks to the ping pong table. “You’re gonna lose while I eat,” he says.  
  
“In your fucking dreams,” Quinn says back, pulling up his sleeve and picking up the paddle. He serves the ball to Brady and Brady bats it back.  
  
So that’s how their night goes. Pizza between rounds of video games and bubble hockey and foosball and Brady lets Quinn teach him Egyptian ratscrew while the rain pours outside.  
  
It’s nearing two in the morning and they’re finishing up a game of chel when Brady’s phone dings.  
  
“My family is heading back,” he says. “You want me to drop you off?”  
  
“It’s still raining,” Quinn says, rolling over onto his side and sliding a hand beneath his head to rest on.  
  
“We can take a different car,” he says, shrugging, “or are you asking to sleepover?”  
  
Quinn very slowly and deliberately rolls his eyes. “In your dreams,” he says back.  
  
“I’ll drop you off,” Brady nods. “Quinnys getting sleepy, I can tell.”  
  
He’s not wrong, so Quinn doesn’t respond. He’d probably fall asleep right there if Brady left him alone. Brady gets up, turning off the Xbox and offering a hand to help Quinn get up. Quinn looks at him a moment, then offers him a sleeve covered hand and stands up. Brady leads him back to the garage, picking up a set of keys from the hook and opening the passenger door for him.  
  
“You’re so extra,” Quinn laughs under his breath, “thank you.”  
  
“What can I say?” Brady shuts his door, then gets into the driver’s side. “I’m a gentleman.”  
  
Quinn finds something on the radio that isn’t EDM, then just relaxes. Brady was right, he’s so tired he has to hold himself back from nodding off on the short drive back to his place.  
  
“Am I gonna see you tomorrow?” Quinn asks, looking over at him.  
  
“Uh,” he says. “I’ve got a lot of family stuff coming up in the next few days, so. Maybe not.”  
  
“Oh,” Quinn says, trying not to feel so disappointed. “Okay.”  
  
“I’ll hit you later, though,” Brady promises, patting his thigh. “Okay?”  
  
Quinn nods, and Brady shifts in his seat, leaning over the console. Quinn freaks for a minute -- Brady’s going to kiss him, just like that, just like he’s been waiting for.  
  
There’s someone rapping on the window.  
  
To be fair, the car is pretty dark and so is the street, so he doubts his mom meant to ruin their moment again. “Sorry,” Quinn says, shaking his head. He unbuckles his seat belt, then grabs his phone. “See you.”  
  
“Yeah,” Brady waves. Quinn opens his door.  
  
“I brought you an umbrella so you wouldn’t get too wet,” his mom says helpfully. “Hi, Brady! How are you?”  
  
“I’m good, Mrs. Hughes.”  
  
“Thank you for having him over,” she smiles.  
  
“Mom, oh my God,” Quinn mutters.  
  
“Anytime,” Brady grins.  
  
“Drive safe home sweetheart,” she says, then waves before shutting the door and walking Quinn inside.  
  
She quizzes him, of course, as any mom would.  
  
“What’d you guys do?”  
  
  
“Just -- hung out.”  
  
“Did you meet his family?”  
  
“No, they were in the city.”  
  
“Did you kiss him?”  
  
“No, mom,” he says, sounding disgusted.  
  
“Did you have sex with him?”  
  
“Oh my god, mom,” he groans.  
  
“You’re wearing his clothes! Are those his clothes?”  
  
“We got rained on so he gave me stuff to wear so I didn’t get hypothermia,” he says, but she doesn’t look convinced at all. “I’m really tired.”  
  
“You need to tell me if you’re having sex,” she says. “I don’t want you catching anything.”  
  
“Goodnight,” he says instead, turning and walking down to his bedroom.  
  
He’s struck with the sight of himself in Brady’s sweatshirt in his mirror as he walks in. Obviously he knows he’s wearing Brady’s clothes -- he was there when he put them on and his mom just oh so helpfully reminded him -- but there’s something different about really seeing himself in them.  
  
He realizes he’s been staring at himself, so he closes his door quietly and keeps looking. How his fingers disappear into the sleeves, how the shoulders sag and the pocket is extra low. He knows the whole thing about sweaters is that they’re supposed to smell like the person, and he tells himself that he hasn’t known Brady long enough to know what he smells like yet, but there’s something oddly comforting and homey about the warm, musky, vaguely cinnamony scent about it.  
  
He wears it to sleep.  
  
(When he gets home from work the next day, there’s lube and condoms on his pillow. He appreciates the gesture, but Mom.)  
  
He doesn’t see Brady for two days. He feels kind of… upset, but he doesn’t really know why, and he knows he shouldn’t be. He just wants to talk to the dude, but apparently Bradys too busy to even give him a DM on Instagram. He’s pretty much resigned to thinking Brady got bored of him and won’t see him ever again.  
  
(He knows he’s being dramatic, Josh. Cut him a break.)  
  
He has off that Thursday and there’s supposed to be crazy good waves, so he takes the welcome distraction and goes out on the water with his family.  
  
It’s worth it. The beach is busy, but there aren’t too many people in the water so he’s not stressed about absolutely braining some preteen who doesn’t know how to get through a wave or anything like that.  
  
His parents have their canopy set up and Jack brought his portable hammock frame, set up to the side while his parents are settled in the shade eating and drinking. Quinns out there the longest, but that’s to be expected. He’d stay out all day if he could, but he just ate it pretty hard and he can feel the salt and sun dehydrating him.  
  
He sticks his board in the sand, then strips out of his wetsuit and hangs it up in the sun to dry out a little.  
  
“Where’d they all go?” Quinn asks.  
  
“I think to get ice or bug spray or something,” Luke says, squinting up at him from where he’s reading. Quinn doesn’t respond, just grabs his sunglasses and tosses himself into the hammock to let the sun warm him up again. He takes sips from his hydroflask here and there, idly trying to press the stickers back down where they’re coming up.  
  
“Fuck off, Jack,” Quinn says when someone shakes him, and he reaches out blindly to slap at their hand.  
  
“Nope,” Brady says, pulling the fabric over a little to peek inside Quinn’s cocoon. “Wrong.”  
  
Quinn doesn’t say anything, he just -- tries, and fails, to fight a smile.  
  
“What’re you doing?” Brady asks, swinging him gently.  
  
“Sitting in this hammock,” Quinn responds. “I was just out surfing.”  
  
“I know, I was watching. Looked sick, hang ten bro.” Brady throws him a shaka, so Quinn giggles and gives him one back.  
  
“Is your family out here?”  
  
“Yeah,” he says, looking over his shoulder. “We’ve got, like, ten tents set up. I just absolutely annihilated my brother in cornhole.”  
  
“Good,” Quinn nods. “I’m proud of you.”  
  
“Thank you,” he puffs up his chest. “I don’t mean to brag or anything but I’m pretty good at getting it in.”  
  
Quinn snorts, opening his mouth to respond that he’ll believe it when he sees it when his mom -- his sweet, sweet mom -- announces her return.  
  
“Brady?!” She sounds so excited.  
  
“Hey, Mrs. H,” Brady gives a little wave and Quinn sits up, seeing his dad and Jack in tow.  
  
“What’re you doing out here, did you come with your family?”  
  
“Yeah, yeah, we’re over at the big group of, like, ten tents, everyone’s here. I came over to see if Quinn wanted to come but you guys are all welcome, my Dad is grilling.  
  
“Brady,” she says. “What a sweet offer, thank you. Honey, this is Brady, Brady this is Jim and Jack and Luke. We can bring over the snacks we brought and we’ve got drinks and ice.”  
  
Brady nods along and Quinn kind of feels like he’s in a fever dream. “Yeah, totally, feel free.”  
  
“Well,” Ellen says, “maybe we just move our tent over so theres more room and all.”  
  
Brady shrugs. “Totally.”  
  
“Great! Luke, honey, help your dad get the canopy down and Jack, baby, grab the chairs. Brady, maybe you can give Quinn a hand with the hammock?”  
  
“Sure thing Mrs. H,” Brady says back cheerfully, and Quinn shakes his head, tossing his water bottle into the hammock.  
  
“Happy?” Quinn asks.  
  
“Oh man,” Brady shakes his head. “I’m thrilled.”  
  
They make the move over and Brady introduces everyone -- there are a lot of names going around, Quinns a little overwhelmed -- and eventually they end up pressed side by side in the hammock, snacking of a big bunch of grapes on Brady’s stomach.  
  
“I kinda thought you were kidding when you said there were thirty people at your house,” he says.  
  
“Yeah, no,” Brady shakes his head, crunching on a grape. “We’re a big family.”  
  
“Everyone seems really nice.”  
  
“Yeah, we get along. You should teach me how to surf.” He holds a grape up to Quinn’s mouth and drops it in.  
  
“Oh yeah?” He chews a few times, swallows. “What’s in it for me?”  
  
“Dude, I will make it so worth your while.”  
  
“Dude,” Quinn mocks.  
  
“What’s wrong with dude?”  
  
“Nothing,” he shakes his head. “I just wouldn’t call someone I was trying to hook up with ‘dude’.”  
  
“Who says I’m trying to hook up with you?” Brady asks. “That’s kind of cocky.”  
  
Quinn doesn’t really have a response, so he just mocks Brady’s tone. “That’s cocky.”  
  
“You wanna kiss me so fuckin’ bad,” Brady laughs at him.  
  
“Shut up,” Quinn shakes his head, “no, the fuck, I do not.”  
  
Brady flicks a grape at him. “You’re not fooling anyone,” he says. “It’s okay, dude. I’m an absolute stud. A dime.”  
  
“You’re so full of yourself,” Quinn scoffs. Brady flexes in response. Quinn hates that it kind of turns him on.  
  
As if things couldn’t get more… surreal, he guesses, the Tkachuks invite them over for dinner.  
  
He has to admit, though, sitting out in the back and watching Brady play with all his little cousins is cute as fuck. And, like. Doing things to him.  
  
When it starts getting later the little ones all head into the gameroom to watch a movie and things slow down a little.  
  
“C’mere,” Brady says, tugging him down a trail in the backyard. “I wanna show you something.”  
  
He’s in another one of Brady’s sweatshirts, and as they’re walking Brady doesn’t let go of his hand.  
  
“I feel like we’re about to see an alligator,” Quinn says.  
  
“Maybe,” Brady replies. “Sometimes they hang out down here.”  
  
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” Quinn laughs.  
  
“It’s just a dock,” Brady replies, “relax.”  
  
Brady leads them down the dock to the little pavilion at the end. Part of the roof is taken out, showing off the sky.  
  
“Lie down with me,” Brady says, still not letting go of his hand, so Quinn just follows. Brady’s bicep is under his neck, his head kind of almost on Brady’s chest, and they’re still holding hands. Still.  
  
He’s not sure what to do about his feelings for Brady. He likes him, sure, but he’s liked boys before and they’ve all been sort of jerks. He doesn’t want to get hurt by some guy who doesn’t actually like him and just got bored on his family vacation -- but even thinking that makes him feel bad because Brady hasn’t done anything to deserve him thinking like that. He knows the answer is just to take the risk and trust him, but that’s a lot easier said than done.  
  
“When are you leaving?” Quinn asks.  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“Like, you said you live in St. Louis. When do you go back home?”  
  
“Oh,” Brady says. “I dunno. It’s kinda up in the air right now.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
“Why? You want me out of your hair?”  
  
“No, no, not that. I just…” he trails off. “Wanna know how much time we have left together.”  
  
He feels a little dumb. This is all very teenaged coming of age movie and he kind of hates that. He hates that he feels so connected to someone he’s hardly known for a month, and he hates that he’s so into Brady’s dumb jokes and his stupid face and the way he ties Quinn’s stomach in knots. He likes absolutes. He likes knowing and black and white and none of this is like that, it’s all theory and trust and abstract thought. He feels silly for feeling how he does.  
  
“Don’t think about that,” Brady says, stroking his thumb over Quinn’s hand. “What happens -- oh! Did you see that shooting star?”  
  
“Yeah,” Quinn laughs.  
  
“What’d you wish for?” He asks.  
  
Quinn angles his head up to look at Brady a little better. “I can’t tell you,” he says quietly. “Then it won’t come true.”  
  
Brady mirrors him, looking down at him. Brady’s looking at his lips, and Quinn wants him to. He’s tilting his chin up and up and up because he’s been thinking about all the missed opportunities and he just wants to be kissed.  
  
“Brady!”  
  
Quinn makes an audible sound of disappointment, and Brady thumps his head back onto the wood of the dock. “Matt,” he calls back, “fuck off.”  
  
“No,” he says, then enters the pavillion. “What the fuck are you two doing?”  
  
“What do you want?” Brady asks, and they awkwardly sit up and try to pretend they hadn’t been interrupted for the hundredth time.  
  
“You gotta go,” he says, pointing back towards the house. “I’ve got people coming over and dad doesn’t want us being loud and pissing off the neighbors.”  
  
“Fuck you, I was here first. Go find somewhere else.”  
  
“I was born first, you fuck off.”  
  
“Matt,” Brady says, “literally. Fuck off, we were in the middle of --”  
  
Quinn puts a hand on his leg subtly, then looks over at him. “It’s fine,” he says, “I’m kinda cold anyway.”  
  
Brady huffs, but helps Quinn up and then shoves past his brother. “You literally owe me so hard.”  
  
“Sure, dude, whatever,” Matt replies, obviously uninterested.  
  
“Uhh,” Brady hums when they get back to the backyard. Their families are pretty obviously still having a blast, so they probably have time to just hang out. “We can go inside,” he decides, “hot tub, since you’re cold.”  
  
“Okay,” he laughs. “Since I’m cold.”  
  
Brady leads him back through this labyrinth of a house to another room with -- yeah. An in-ground hot tub, if he can even call it that. It’s big enough to be a small pool.  
  
“This house is insane,” he utters, and Brady starts pressing buttons to heat the tub up.  
  
“Yeah,” Brady says, “my grandparents had it, like, tricked out so we’d all come down here and visit and stuff.”  
  
“Do you come down here often?”  
  
Brady shrugs. “Usually once or twice a year, depending on if we come for Christmas. But it’s not usually this busy, we all come at different times.”  
  
Quinn wants to ask again how long but he doesn’t want to annoy Brady. He’s not even sure that Brady is as, like, emotionally invested as he is. He doesn’t know if Brady even really cares beyond just wanting to hook up. Quinn peels off his sweatshirt, tossing it over the back of a chair.  
  
“Looks good on you.”  
  
“What does?”  
  
Bradys sitting by the tub now, legs stretched along the side. “My sweatshirt.”  
  
Quinn smiles at him a little.  
  
“You always do that.”  
  
“Do what?” He laughs.  
  
“I say something and you, like. Try not to smile and you look away.”  
  
“No I don’t,” Quinn says, eyes fixed on the backyard.  
  
“You’re doing it right now,” Brady says back, leaning forward to pull Quinn in. “Why? Do I make you nervous?”  
  
“No?” Quinn laughs, and Brady manhandles him to sit between his legs. “Why would you make me nervous?”  
  
“I dunno,” Brady says, and they’re back to being inches from one anothers faces. “I didn’t know if I was coming on too strong. Or if you actually wanted me to back up.”  
  
“Oh,” Quinn glances at his lips. “No, you’re good.” Theres a pause and the sexual tension is suffocating, both of them glancing at one another’s lips and waiting for the other to make a move.  
  
“You’re a little slow,” Quinn says, “if anything.”  
  
It makes Brady laugh, shaking his head. He opens his mouth to say something, then slips his arm under Quinn’s knees and shoves him into the pool.  
  
“Asshole,” Quinn sputters, head popping out from the warm water. Brady is laughing at him, so obviously Quinn splashes him as hard as he can. When Brady gives him an offended look, Quinn just raises his eyebrows and kicks towards the other end of the tub.  
  
He doesn’t get there because Brady jumps in himself, sans his heavy sweats, and grabs Quinn by the hips to yank him under again.  
  
It’s a kind of surreal moment when they get under. They can’t really hear much, just the water in their ears. The light is catching perfectly so that it shows off the depth in his green eyes and there are a bunch of tiny air bubbles trapped in his hair. Brady’s so, so tired of waiting to kiss him.  
  
As far as first kisses go, kissing underwater is pretty much always going to suck. It tastes like chlorine and breathing is, like, not happening, but. That doesn’t mean it’s a bad kiss.  
  
It’s pretty exhilarating, in all honesty. He feels like he’s been waiting for years to do this, to finally be pressing their lips together and holding onto one another for dear life. It’s not long before Brady is wrapping his arms around Quinn, lifting him out of the water. Theres a pause where they both gasp for air but then it’s back to kissing.  
  
It’s frantic, really. Quinn is clutching onto the back of Brady’s neck, gripping at his shoulders one second then wrapping all around his shoulders the next moment. Brady is the same way -- one moment he’s holding Quinn’s cheeks, and the next he’s wrapped around him in a hug. Quinn can taste the chlorine on his mouth but as they kiss and kiss and keep kissing, he can taste the warmth of cinnamon.  
  
“I can feel your heart pounding,” Quinn laughs when they pull away, their foreheads resting on one another’s.  
  
“I can feel yours, too,” Brady says, “kinda makes me think I do make you nervous.”  
  
Quinn laughs, shaking his head a little. “Not a chance.”  
  
“Why are you soaking wet again?!” Ellen asks him later when he’s wrapped in a towel, touching his hair.  
  
“He shoved me in the pool,” Quinn responds innocently.  
  
“Brady, go get him something to wear,” Chantal tells him. “Sorry,” she looks back to Ellen. “He’s always getting into trouble like that.”  
  
Quinn follows Brady up to his room again, changes into more of Brady’s clothes, then pops up onto his tiptoes and gives Brady another kiss, just because he can. Brady slips an arm around his waist and for a second Quinn thinks he’s about to get groped, but Brady’s hand sits comfortably at the small of his back.  
  
“Am I gonna see you tomorrow?” Quinn asks before they go back downstairs.  
  
“Yeah,” Brady nods. “Can I bring you lunch?”  
  
Quinn licks his lips, then nods. “Yeah. Surprise me.”  
  
For as long as it took for them to actually do anything about their mutual crushes -- a measly two weeks -- the rest of the summer seems to fly by. Quinn tries hard to be grateful for the little moments and the big ones alike, from hearing Brady tell him that his family went back to St. Louis already and he chose to stay with his grandparents to the day that they spend at Harry Potter World and Brady tries to draw a little scar on his head so he can make ‘Yer a wizard, Quinny!’ jokes all day.  
  
Quinn teaches Brady to surf, or rather how to stand up on the board mostly, but Quinn has no problem taking him out just to sit on the edge of his board while Quinn does all the hard work. They go on dates where they binge on bottomless popcorn shrimp or try to see how many pieces of taffy they can fit in their mouths at once. They go paddleboarding in the bay off Brady’s house, pack picnics and go kayaking together. They try and see how much they have to eat for them to puke on Space Mountain. For two months, the world is their oyster.  
  
They get their golf rematch and Brady wins, calls them even. Quinn buys him a snowcone because that was their deal, but he also shoulder checks Brady so hard he drops his and chases his boyfriend down the dock.  
  
He’s been calling Brady that in his head, but. He’s not all sure that thats what they are.  
  
They’re cuddling in Quinn’s bed, four days from when Brady has to go back to St. Louis. Quinn has kidnapped Brady’s TERRIERS HOCKEY sweatshirt and is holding it hostage with no plans of returning it. His head is on Brady’s chest, laying half on top of the taller boy with one hand tucked behind his neck, leftover from when they were kissing. Brady’s hand is on the small of his back again.  
  
He doesn’t want to think about leaving, but he sort of has to.  
  
“I had a lot of fun with you,” Quinn says.  
  
He laughs. “Why do you say that?”  
  
“Because I did?”  
  
“No, like. You make it sound like it’s over. Past tense.”  
  
Quinn takes a deep breath. “I just -- I don’t know. You’re leaving. And we’re gonna be far apart.”  
  
“Yeah,” Brady agrees. “So?”  
  
“So I -- we don’t know what’s gonna happen.”  
  
Brady rubs his hand soothingly up and down Quinn’s back. “We never know what’s gonna happen ever. With anything.”  
  
He guesses Brady is right, but it doesn’t really make him feel better. He wipes at one of his eyes.  
  
“Hey,” Brady says gently, “what’s wrong?”  
  
Quinn shakes his head, trying to keep his eyes hidden but Brady gently pulls his hand away. “I just -- I don’t wanna say goodbye.”  
  
“Hey,” Brady repeats. “It’s gonna be okay,” he promises. “We’re gonna be alright, I don’t want you to cry.”  
  
Quinn hates crying, especially in front of other people. He can’t help but think maybe Brady thinks he’s doing it for attention, even though he well knows Brady wouldn’t think anything like that. He hates the way his voice wavers and breaks and how pathetic he looks and the headache that comes after crying.  
  
“Sorry,” he mutters, sniffling and trying to pull his emotions in. “I’m just -- gonna miss you a lot.”  
  
This was what he’d been trying to avoid, this whole rip the bandaid off thing.  
  
“We’re gonna be fine,” Brady promises, kissing his head. “We’re gonna be just fine.”  
  
The last few days go by the fastest, despite both of them trying to take in each and every moment.  
  
“Love you,” he mutters wetly into Brady’s neck at the airport drop off, clutching him tightly. He releases, dropping off his tiptoes.  
  
“Stop crying,” he laughs, wiping his thumbs over Quinn’s cheeks. “You’re gonna make me cry and you don’t want that.”  
  
“Sorry,” he laughs weakly, drying his cheeks with his shirt.  
  
“We’re gonna be fine,” Brady promises, kissing his head. “You trust me, right?”  
  
Quinn looks up at him and nods.  
  
“Good. I love you, too.”  
  
Quinn shifts where he’s standing. “Have a safe flight,” he says. “Don’t flirt with whoever’s sitting next to you.”  
  
Brady laughs and his smile makes Quinn mirror it. “I’ll try my best,” he winks. And then he’s gone.  
  
In the end, he can’t really say whether they will or they won’t. If theres one thing the summer taught him, it’s trust. It’s the first time he’s ever been in love, and he knows now the first step is trust. And even if he and Brady don’t make it -- like hell they’re gonna try.  



End file.
